your chemical dream has gone too far
by hell0dair
Summary: Steve Rogers is the best extractor in his class, trained in dreamsharing by the Tactical Extraction and Recovery Squadron. Tasked by the World Security Counsel to extract a crucial piece of data from Nick Fury, Steve assembles at team for a mission that may prove to be something far more difficult than it seems.


Steve can see the entrance to the cave up ahead, a slim crack in the rock; there's barely enough room for a man to squeeze through. Snow blurs his vision as he shoves his way forward, boots slipping along the hard-packed ice of the slope. Bucky is up ahead, the smaller man moving gracefully over the ground, rifle slung over his back. He stops, just for a second, flicks a look over his shoulder to Steve: "You coming?"

Grunting out an affirmative, Steve scrambles after him. He's starting to sweat underneath his parka, but the burning-cold wind chaps his face. He catches up to Bucky, watches him turn sideways to slip into the mouth of the cave. Steve follows after him, with difficulty. His chest is too wide; he shrugs off his down jacket, tossing it aside and trying again. Finally, shivering, he squeezes through the impossible opening in the rock.

The earth surrounding them deadens the yawn of the wind; it's dark, but Steve can make out the slopes of rock rising around them, hear the slow drip of water cutting pathways through the stone. Bucky pulls a flashlight from his pack, its light bouncing off the walls, and drops to his knees near the back of the cave, yanking a glove off with his teeth and running his free hand over a barely discernible seam in the cave's wall. He hooks his fingers into the groove and pushes to reveal a small opening.

Steve starts toward him, the hand in his pocket weighing his gun. He doesn't think they've been detected; they're safe here. Everyone else should be out by now; Tony had done a great job of building this awful bit of tundra, and Fury's mind hadn't been nearly as well-guarded as Clint had thought – the infiltration had been easy. Steve had sent the two men back early; no need to endanger them if they weren't needed. Two quick shots and they were safe.

Bucky makes a quiet noise of triumph as he eases the heavy stone cover fully away, revealing the contents of the hidden cupboard: a set of tightly rolled blueprints. He draws them out, unfurling them with a flourish, and catches Steve's eye.

"Too bad you sent Stark packing; he's good with these kinds of things."

Steve bends closer to examine the plans. "Yeah, well, couldn't resist when he asked me to shoot him." Bucky chuckles. "You can do it, Buck. Take a look and tell me what you see."

Bucky squints at the plans, running his index finger over the curves of what appears to be some kind of weapon. He's muttering to himself, and Steve is studying him, watching the lines of comprehension creep across his face.

"This is a HYDRA-tech weapon, for sure. An energy cannon, looks like it's meant for a combat application. But this one, it's different, I can't quite put my -" Bucky chokes on the last word, and his body goes rigid as the blueprints slip from his hands. Steve springs back, drawing the gun from his pocket and turning to put himself between Bucky and the mouth of the cave. He searches, wildly, aiming the gun everywhere, looking for the telltale laser sight or the shadow of a retreating assailant. Steve can't see anyone, and he can't hear _anything_ over the sound of his blood pounding in his ears. He whips around again, lowering the weapon enough to get a good look at Bucky, who has dropped himself to the ground, clutching his chest. Steve can see the thick red stain painting the front of his jacket, a single bloody handprint already on the snowy ground from Bucky's failed attempt to staunch the flow of his blood.

The gun falls from Steve's hand as he kneels beside Bucky, yanking off his own scarf and batting Bucky's hands away so he can apply pressure to the bullet wound in the man's chest. It seems to have been a large caliber bullet – too big for a sniper rifle; Steve hadn't seen _anyone_ since Stark and Barton had left, he was sure they were alone; this _didn't make any __sense_…

Oh, Jesus. They _were_ alone. Which could only mean one thing…

"Bucky, Buck… Look at me," Steve demands, focusing his full attention on the bleeding man in front of him. "Buck. I think we've been compromised. I think you've been hit. Up top."

Bucky's dark eyes slide in and out of focus as he struggles to look at Steve's face. He hefts an arm up to wrap his bloody hand around Steve's wrist. "That can't be, Steve. This is just a dream."

"Yeah, Buck. Come on; let's get you out of here." Steve nods, hoping that the cursory look they had gotten at the plans is enough to complete the job. It's time to get out of here. Luckily, they are only a level down. Before he'd gone back, Clint had given them another twenty minutes before the kick; they should be right on time. Steve wraps an arm underneath Bucky to lift him to his feet, but the man lets out a soft whine as he's shifted, and remains dead weight in Steve's arms. Steve looks down into Bucky's eyes again, his mouth opening to encourage him, but what he sees silences him instead. Bucky is starting to fade – _literally_ – his skin has gone white, nearly translucent, as he seems to slowly melt away.

_Fuck_. Steve knows what this is. He'd heard of it happening; he knew that it could. That doesn't make it any easier. Bucky is dead. He's _dead._ This isn't just a job anymore. This isn't a game. Someone up top has killed Bucky. The kick's coming, but only one of them is going up.

"Bucky… _James_," Steve pleads, his eyes looking right through Bucky to the stone floor as the man in his arms dissolves into mist. "Bucky, come back. It's just a dream." Steve crumples, alone in the cave, all traces of Bucky's blood gone from his clothes. Like he'd never been there. Like he'd never existed at all.

"It's just a dream."

x

Captain Steven Rogers startles awake in a shitty motel room, covered in sweat.

He sits bolt upright, pulling the gun from beneath his pillow in one smooth, practiced motion, aiming for an imagined intruder before his eyes are even fully open.

But he's alone. He's always alone. Ever since Bucky…

Steve Rogers doesn't sleep anymore.

Not really.

And he certainly doesn't dream.

x

Clint Barton rolls over and slaps his hand lamely along his nightstand, trying to find his cell phone and shut it the hell up. It's nearly four o'clock in the morning, and even for a military guy like him, that's way too fucking early.

His fingers finally close around the phone, and he pulls it to his face, blinking sleepily at the screen as he swipes a finger to answer.

"Can't be up to anything good at this hour, Rogers." Clint's voice is gravelly with sleep, and he clears his throat to dislodge it.

"You're the one who answered, Barton. Can't sleep?" Steve's voice is sharp, edged with that little bit of anxiety that Clint has come to recognize from their time working together.

Something's wrong.

"I was doing a pretty good job until about thirty seconds ago. How about you, Cap?" Clint knows Steve will bristle at the nickname, but he can't help it. He's still a little pissed at the interruption.

"_Clint_," there it was. Steve pauses, and then "There's a job."

"Been a while…"

Steve cuts across him, the anxiety overtaking the edge in his voice, speeding it up and lowering it dangerously, "I know it has. But there's a job. And I need you. Have you heard from Tasha?"

It's Clint's turn to pause, but before he can decide on an answer –

"Get a location on her and meet me tomorrow, 0900. You know where."

Steve hangs up.

"Aye, aye, Captain," Clint huffs into the silence on the other end of the line. He drops the phone back on his nightstand, fully awake now. He looks over at the scarlet-haired woman still sleeping beside him.

Clint figures he'll let Natasha rest; he can fill her in tomorrow.

x

Tony Stark's wide awake, four cups of coffee and five shots of whiskey into something that is sure to be totally, _totally_ awesome if he remembers what it is _at all_ the next morning, when he gets the call.

Or rather, when he ignores it.

"Hey, Tony, it's me. It's Steve. Look, I know that we haven't seen each other in a while, and I know that you're probably not thrilled to hear from me, but I need – the team needs you. There's a job. It's a good one. You'll love it. No one can build like you can… Anyway, meet us tomorrow, 0900."

Tony listens to the message on speaker three times before he makes it all the way through without swearing aloud at the sender. Of _course_ Steve _needs_ him, Steve only ever calls when he _needs _Tony. And he really is the best; honestly, the fact that Steve had to reinforce it only meant that he was trying to butter him up. This job must really fucking suck if Steve has been reduced to flattery.

Tony aims a glare at the phone lying upturned on his desktop as he empties the next whiskey directly into his coffee cup. He returns his attentions to the pile of wires on the bench before him and tries to remember what had seemed so promising about them before.

It's not that Tony is _angry_, exactly. He's used to no one taking him seriously. He's the mechanics man – a glorified construction worker who builds houses no one ever sees to house crimes no one sees committed. And Tony _knows_ he doesn't have the greatest track record with self-esteem or playing well with others.

But fuck if he's going back to work with Steve after the last time.

x

Steve sits on the edge of the mattress, cradling the motel's landline in his hand. He's still not sure he's doing the right thing.

In fact, he knows he's not.

x

"Banner."

"Bruce, hey. You hear from the ol' Cap yet?" Tony's tone is easy, practiced. Controlled.

"You been drinking, Stark?"

"I don't know, you been shooting up?"

Bruce _tsks_ at the slang, his forearms flexing instinctively. He rolls his shirtsleeves back down as he waits for Tony to continue.

"He left me a message, 'bout a job. Figured he would've sounded your air raid siren, too. Guess not. Bye then-"

"Tony, wait." Bruce turns his back on his lab table, rubbing the tender spot on the bridge of his nose left by the microscope. "What did he say?"

"Nothing of note. A least it was civil, not exactly a repeat performance of our last encounter. But you're smart, you know the drill. 0900 tomorrow, the Clubhouse."

Bruce allows the silence left after Tony hangs up to spin out, holding the phone to his ear. He gently returns the phone to its cradle, and sits back on his stool.

He reaches for the tourniquet resting by his microscope and rolls his shirtsleeves up once more.

x

Clint gives up on sleep. He slinks out of their bedroom, slipping the door closed behind him. He pads down the hall toward the kitchen, thinks about a cup of coffee, wonders if there's anything good on TV.

Anything that isn't telling Natasha about Steve's phone call.

x

They had been an incredible team. On good days, they functioned like many arms of the same person, infiltrating people's minds and relieving them of their most valuable secrets before the poor assholes even knew they'd been had.

Steve, Clint, and Bucky had that easy-going military swagger, three men who knew that they could get away with just about anything. They'd been recruited from the same Army regiment, brought in to be trained in dream-sharing by the Tactical Extraction and Recovery Squadron (TERS), a top-secret special forces division under the provenance of the World Security Council.

TERS had been keeping tabs on Nick Fury and SHIELD for years, as a matter of special interest to the WSC. Fury had gone rogue, they were told, and had absconded with some high-level military secrets and weaponry plans. Steve, Clint, and Bucky were tasked with assembling a team to infiltrate Fury's mind and recover the stolen information.

Steve, the best extractor in their class, had assigned Clint to point, and Bucky's childhood of pick pocketing in Brooklyn lent him naturally to the role of the thief. Clint had brought in Natasha, an old friend from a low place, a stunning woman with a talent for forging and a wicked left hook. Steve had found Tony by word-of-mouth – word was, if you could stand him long enough, Stark could build the kind of set-ups most people could literally only dream about.

The last man on their roll call was a chemist – enter Bruce, Tony's acquaintance and a pharmacologist. Bruce had been a tough one – years of experimenting on himself had left him with exhaustion-induced seizures brought on by repeated overdoses of homemade Somnacin. To counteract this effect, Bruce had taken to injecting heroin to keep himself constantly awake and alert – he seemed to take pride in working with people who slept for a living when he himself hadn't slept more than an hour at a time in five years. Still, the man was one of the most calm, reserved, polite people any of the others had ever met – he kept himself controlled at all times, even when he was higher than the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

So they had a team, and a mark. They just needed a plan.

x

Eyes closed, Bruce slides the needle into the crook of his arm and waits for the familiar static to wash over him.

As his eyes flutter open again, he wonders how it feels for the others to sleep knowing what they know about dreams.

x

Tony tosses the clump of wires to the floor, resisting the urge to kick it away only because he's not sure he could stand up straight at this particular moment. He leans his head down onto his desk, shoulders slumped, and screws his eyes shut. He can still hear Steve's voice, echoing from their last mission, burned into his brain.

"_You're nothing more than a smartass with a set of blueprints, Stark. Just a fucking kid scribbling out nonsense, building houses out of Lincoln logs and you think you've got us all fooled? You aren't a soldier, and you sure as hell aren't a saint. You think you're so indispensable but honestly, Tony? You're way more fucking trouble than you're worth."_

Tony reaches out blindly for the bottle of whiskey, only to find it empty.

He can almost pretend that the sound it makes when it shatters drowns out Steve's voice.

x

Natasha's eyes snap open at the first glint of sunrise through the blinds. Reaching her fists above her head, she stretches the last dregs of sleep out of her limbs. She turns her head to Clint's side, finds his sheets turned down and cold.

Still in her sweats, she makes her way to kitchen, hoping he at least made coffee. She finds Clint slumped on the floor, back against the couch, a cooling mug of coffee dangling from his hand.

She knows him well enough to know he's hiding something.

"Clint -"

"Natasha. Steve called." Clint lets the words out in a rush. He can't be bothered to meet her eyes; he knows what they'll say.

She surprises him by answering at all. "And what did he want?"

Polite. Cold. Just like he knew her eyes would be.

"There's a job. We don't have to go…" he starts, realizing before the words are out of his mouth that he doesn't know the end of the sentence.

"Look, Clint, I miss Bucky too. I still think Steve is a dick for the way he treated us and for the way he handled it. But I'd like to think I could handle working with him again. Besides, we haven't been under in a while." Her gaze shifts, then, before Clint can catch it, thawing into something a little wistful, a little distant.

"Almost a year," he volunteers. Clint knows that look better than most of her other ones – he's seen it a lot since they all stopped working together.

Natasha catches his eye for this first time that morning. "When do we head out?"

x

Steve spends the rest of the night pacing the floor, scratching out plans and lists and then tossing them away – a constant stream of ideas, each making less sense than the last.

God, he wishes Bucky was here. He would know how to approach this, how to make it work – he would reassure Steve that the team would be there. That they would still want to work with him.

"Buck, I could really use you on this one," Steve lets out, finally, as the gray dawn outside gives way to a peach-orange sunrise.

"You would've been great."

x

The Fury job had taken weeks of planning. Even though they were only heading one level down, Clint's intel had indicated that Fury had recruited the best in hopes of securing his subconscious from intrusions. He was their Fort Knox; they had to be prepared for anything.

Major Eames, the director of TERS, and Steve, Bucky, and Clint's Commanding Officer, had also managed to make sure that none of the team's preparation was easy.

He complicated their plans considerably by flat-out refusing to share anything remotely important with Tony, Natasha, or Bruce – civilians. Major Eames insisted on speaking directly to Steve, the ranking officer, and then, only in person or through encrypted message networks. Ultimately, the decision came down that in order for the security of the targeted information to be maintained, the Major had decided that Fury would need to be "relocated" to a monitored facility before the dreamshare could take place.

Which meant that Steve's team had just become party to a government-ordered kidnapping.

x

Steve pulls up to the old canning factory and kills the engine on his bike. The sun has been up for a while, but there's still a chill in the air, and he zips his leather jacket up to his chin as he steels himself for the very real possibility that the team hadn't come. That he'd be working alone, back at square one.

Clint, at least, had seemed curious. But Steve's not sure what he'll say to the others, if they do show.

How can you apologize to people you've betrayed?

x

Tony paces, fidgeting with the empty paper coffee cup clutched in his left hand. He runs his free hand through his hair, but the dark strands, stiff with sweat, resist his attempts to tidy them.

"Tony. _Tony_." Bruce turns in his seat, and the lenses of his glasses flash. "Please sit down. You're making me nervous."

Tony's barely-stifled grumble follows him as he drops into the plastic chair next to Bruce. "Wouldn't want that, big guy. Probably need you around for this party, yeah?"

Bruce sighs, returning his gaze to the double doors on the far side of the factory floor. Old, rusted machines line the walls, and a thin film of dust blankets the floor and the desks scattered about the center of the high-ceilinged space. It's peaceful here, quiet – the perfect place for arranging a crime. The team had spent a lot of time here; Tony, along with a few of the others, had even taken to calling it the Clubhouse.

It'd be kind of sad, if it wasn't so on the nose.

"It's just another job, Tony, I don't see how that's a party."

x

Natasha cocks the 9mm Glock in her hand, lifts it to her right eye and closes her left to check the sight. She pulls out the clip and checks the chamber, counting how many rounds she has. Apparently satisfied, she replaces the weapon in the leather holster strapped to her right thigh.

Clint watches her perform the ritual, her practiced actions revealing much more of her state of mind than her expressionless face. He takes a step closer to her and reaches his arm around her waist, slipping his index finger along the grip of the gun and flicking the safety into place.

"You plan on shooting first and asking questions later, Tasha?" Clint tries out the joke, but it feels heavy in his mouth when he sees her eyes go flinty. "Should I be worried?"

"I just like to be prepared." Natasha buttons up her coat, tying the belt with a flourish and yanking down on the knot. "You know that."

Clint's hand moves from the gun and settles on her hip.

"I do," he pauses. "It's just our team, Tasha. We know them – we've all been through the same things. You don't have to trust them, but you owe them the benefit of the doubt. Tony and Bruce, at least. Steve… Well, he's got a lot of explaining to do first."

Natasha leans into him, just for a moment, before she's straightening up and Clint's letting his arm fall away. She squares her shoulders, tugs on the belt of her coat again, and brushes one hand over the gun as she replies, "He does. And you of all people should know I'm not very generous when it comes to these kinds of things."

x

TERS had handled most of the logistics of "securing" Nick Fury. The night before Steve and his team were supposed to go under Steve received an email from Major Eames informing him of the time and location of the share. Steve read through it, twice, before sending an unencrypted copy to the rest of the team.

It wasn't long after he'd hit send that his phone rang.

Steve cursed under his breath, having forgotten to silence the phone. He quirked a glance over his shoulder, but Bucky was fast asleep on the bed behind him. Steve heaved a sigh and picked up the phone before it could ring again.

"Hey, Clint. You got the marching orders?"

"Yeah. Listen, Steve, I'm finishing up some briefings for the share and something came up that I think you should see. Something TERS and the WSC didn't mention."

"What is it?"

"Open up the file I just sent you." Steve turned in his chair, his cell phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear, and clicked on the .pdf file Clint had sent him. A dialog box popped up requesting a password, and Steve furrowed a brow.

"What's the code?"

"Bucky's serial number. Figured you'd know it by heart," Clint teased. His tone was light, but Steve could feel the tension behind it.

Steve punched in the numbers one-handed and waited as the pages loaded. He could hear Clint's breaths on the other end of the line, the sound of fingers flying over keys. After the file had finished loading, Steve opened it and discovered a set of WSC internal memos, obviously scanned, and littered with redactions. His eyes roved over the pages, and he drew in a sharp breath as things fell in to place in his mind. "Fury was _working_ for the WSC?"

Clint's drawn breath echoed his own, "Yeah. Seems like SHIELD and the WSC didn't exactly see eye-to-eye on how best to implement that HYDRA technology that had been recovered a few years back. Fury was pushing for a clean energy application, but you know how the US government is – the more firepower, the better."

"So that's why he went rogue?" Steve felt like a stone had dropped into his stomach, its weight settling heavier with every passing second.

"Yeah, _with_ the plans. Fury was the point man for the WSC weapons development team. The last set of plans was never released before he took off." Clint's typing had ceased; Steve could hear his chair creak as he leaned back.

Steve pushed back from his desk and brought a hand to his forehead. "This isn't a security mission, is it?" The weight in Steve's stomach finally broke through, and he felt his insides hit the floor. "This is double-dealing. This is… espionage. This is… this is _bad_, Clint."

"Trust me, Cap. I know."

Both men sat silent for a moment as the reality of the mission settled in.

Steve spoke first. "Clint, SHIELD won't take this kind of betrayal lying down. They'll be looking for Fury, and when they find him, they won't give a fuck about who's working for who, they'll be shooting first and asking questions never. This isn't safe, not for us, not for the team. Certainly not for Fury."

"I know, Steve, but we're on orders. Direct from the WSC. And the Major will have our asses in court martial by lunch tomorrow if we back out now."

Steve scrubbed his hand down his face, closing his eyes and opening them again. "Jesus. They got us good, didn't they?"

"Fuck yeah, they did."

"We even dragged Tony, Bruce, and Tasha into this, totally blind. Like lambs to slaughter."

Clint's silence was all the answer Steve needed. "I'm going to figure this out, okay Clint? I'll see you tomorrow, 0700, like the message said. I want you to make a copy of all of this, the memos, everything. Bring it with you, in a case. Lock it up. Make sure we have proof if we need it."

"Yes, sir."

"And Clint?"

"Yeah, Steve?"

"Don't tell anyone else about this. The less people who know, the better." Steve hung up without waiting for an affirmative from Clint. He set his cell phone down on his desk, resting his elbows on the wood to cradle his head in his hands. This was wrong. All wrong. He should've _known_ something was up – he should've seen this coming. And now his whole team could be compromised.

Well, he couldn't let that happen. Not to the people he cared about.

He risked another glance at Bucky, asleep sprawled over the bed, his dog tags glinting in the light from Steve's desk lamp that spilled over his bare chest.

Turning back once more, Steve reached to pull his desk drawer open. He retrieved the gun he kept there, laid it on the desk next to his cell phone, and returned to the memos open on his computer.

He _wasn't_ going to let anything happen.

x

Clint pushes open the double doors with both hands, Natasha close behind him.

"Well, if it isn't Clint Barton. Jesus, man, I almost forgot what you looked like-" Tony is on his feet and headed toward them before Natasha has cleared the doorway. He extends his hand to Clint, and Clint shakes it. "Stark. Good to see you're still a scruffy bastard."

"You know I can clean up nice; I just choose not to. Not to impress you jackoffs, anyway." Tony tosses his head back and laughs, still shaking Clint's hand. Clint cracks a smile, but he's still more than a little anxious and ready for the meeting to begin.

"Missed you, too, even if you do look a little more homeless than I remember." Clint gestures towards Tony's ripped jeans and day-old t-shirt before looking him in the eye, one eyebrow cocked.

"Well, not all of us had the luxury of returning to a life of crime once the ol' dream-team broke up. And dear old dad wasn't too excited to have me back underfoot at the firm. So, I've been doing my own thing, inventing, building on the side. Structural engineering pays the bills, but you know how it is." Tony's eyes skim over Clint, avoiding any meaningful eye contact before settling on Natasha.

"And you, Madame Romanova. Always a distinct pleasure. _Enchantée_." Tony flourishes his arm as if to bow, and reaches for her hand, but she's quicker, punching him on the shoulder before reaching up to ruffle his hair.

"And you, Stark. Hands off."

By now, Bruce has joined them. He shakes Clint's hand and then accepts Natasha's proffered side-hug before pushing his glasses up his nose and asking, "So, what brings you guys here together? I'd figured that Clint would be arriving with Steve."

Natasha's face remains the same, calm and collected, of course, but Clint's stuttered "weelll…" is enough for both Bruce and Tony. At the same time, Tony crows, "Well I'll be a son of a bitch!" while Bruce goes for the simple, "Congratulations."

"Thanks, guys." Clint's quailing a bit under Natasha's stare, but he looks pleased with himself none the less. Of course, he and Natasha have been together for a while, but not long enough for any of their teammates to know about it. He hopes that this is the last he has to speak of it today. "Any idea why we're here? What did Steve tell you?"

Tony cuts across Bruce to answer first. "Not much, really, I didn't actually speak to him, he, uh, he left me a message. A pretty pathetic one, actually, but I guess he figures he owes me an apology. Anyway, said it was a job, and that you guys needed a good builder and I was the best, so there you go."

Bruce nods along with Tony, and adds, "He didn't call me. Tony did. But, I figured if Steve was getting the team back together, I might be able to be of some use."

"Sounds good," Clint decides. He risks a glance at Natasha, whose gaze has returned to flint. "I guess we'll all be surprised together."

x

The team had gathered at the share site early, per Steve's instructions – by seven, everyone but Tony had arrived. He wandered in about 7:35, a small paper espresso cup in each hand, and Steve could still see the pillow lines on the left side of his face. He silently thanked the instinct that had said to pad the schedule.

"So, now that we're all here-" Steve shot Tony a slightly sour look, "There's something I need to tell you. Clint, you swept the place, yeah?"

"Sure, Cap. No cameras, and no bugs to speak of. Looks like TERS _really_ doesn't want any of this recorded."

"Well, that works for us, too." Steve turned to face the group more fully. Clint stood on his left, dressed casually, the silver briefcase containing the memos in his hand, and Steve couldn't help but notice the lump in the back of his slacks that betrayed his weapon. Steve shifted his weight, and felt the familiar knock of his handgun against his spine as well.

"Listen up, guys. Clint came across some information last night, and I think we all need to know what's about to go down. TERS and WSC weren't completely honest with us. Seems like Fury was _working_ for the World Security Counsel – for a while, everybody was on the same side."

Steve risked a glance around; Bucky's face was stoic, as it had been since Steve had filled him in this morning. He, too, was carrying a gun – why he always insisted on a shoulder hostler, Steve would never know – but his jacket concealed it. Natasha was unreadable, but then again, that was part of the reason Clint had made such a strong case to hire her in the first place. Bruce and Tony stood shoulder-to-shoulder, Bruce's clear gaze never wavering from Steve's face, while Tony made a half-hearted attempt to stifle a yawn as he cocked his head to Steve, _get on with it._

Steve continued, "But there was a disagreement. Clint found a few internal memos that show that Fury had challenged the WSC, and that he'd argued against building the weapons they wanted from the rediscovered HYDRA tech. And, when the WSC refused to listen, Fury took the nuclear option – he took the finalized set of weapon blueprints and took off."

Three sets of widened eyes trained on Steve – he'd been afraid of that. After all, how could he expect three civilians to want to complete what could only be referred to as a suicide mission?

Bruce spoke first. "So, this share that you brought us in on – this is a setup?"

Tony broke in, "Yeah, Steve. You're the one that brought us all together with the 'it'll-be-great look-at-us-go' teamwork bullshit. And now you're telling us, what, literally minutes before we're supposed to plug in, that _we're working for the wrong side_?"

Clint and Bucky spoke up from either side of Steve, and then, pandemonium. Steve couldn't keep up with the argument; he couldn't keep up with his _thoughts_. He knew that they had gotten too far in to stop now – regardless of whether or not they completed the share, their fingerprints were all over this. If SHIELD came looking for revenge, they'd still be on the top of the list. The best he could do, for all of them, was to make his play and hope that the whole mess didn't go pear-shaped the minute they plugged in.

Steve put a hand on Bucky's shoulder, pulling him back from where he'd been nose-to-nose with Stark. "Well if you're such a coward, Stark, why don't you just turn tail and -"

Clearing his throat, Steve gave Bucky's shoulder a squeeze and started, "Now listen up, everyone. This is how it's going to go down: we're all in too deep to quit now. We _all_ know too much. So, we're going to carry on like we've planned. Under no circumstances are the WSC security goons or Fury to find out that we know what we know. Moving forward, got it?"

"And you expect us to, what, just blindly follow you? Like little baby ducks or something?" Tony clenched his jaw, turning his back on Steve to address the group. "Well I don't know about the rest of you, but I think I'll just fuck off before the bullets start flying, if you catch my meaning. No way I'm going under with no one to watch my back. In case you've forgotten, _Captain_, if you die while you're under, it's definitely permanent."

"I'll stay."

All five men turned to look at Natasha, startled by the first words she'd said since she arrived.

"_I said_, I'll stay. You guys don't need me as forger anyway; the whole plan revolves around Bucky cracking the safe. And besides, Clint isn't terrible at it, if you find yourselves in a pinch. So, I'll stay behind. Consider me your own personal security detail."

Tony seemed mollified by this, nodding his head slightly as he faced Steve again. "I swear to God, Rogers, if I die today, I am going to haunt your ass _forever_."

"Can it, Stark. No one likes a bitch." Natasha raised a warning hand to silence him. Turning to Steve, she said, "But, if I'm staying behind, I'll need weapons." She paused to pull a switchblade out of the shaft of her boot before eyeing the three soldiers knowingly. "So hand them over, boys."

Steve looked from Clint to Bucky and nodded. Clint reached behind him to withdraw his gun, handing it to Natasha grip-first. Bucky opened his mouth, as if to reply, but Steve nodded his head again, meeting the man's eyes. Bucky unzipped his jacket and reached for the shoulder holster. Natasha accepted his gun with an appreciative crook of her eyebrow.

"Nice piece, Barnes. Glock 9mm. Not exactly military issue."

Bucky shrugged, a small smirk playing over his face. "Neither am I."

After checking both clips, Natasha shoved the guns in the back of her jeans and replaced the switchblade.

"After you, boys. You've got a dream to share."

x

Steve takes one last deep breath before he pushes the double doors open. For a moment, he hesitates, truly surprised to see the entire team seated, waiting for him.

Four pairs of eyes avoid his as he steps into the room, scattering dust as he drags his feet. He stops in front of the semi-circle of rickety plastic chairs, taking in the sight of his four remaining team members. It's amazing how little any of them had changed in a year; Natasha was doing something different with her hair, and Bruce seemed even thinner (if that was possible) but really, if Steve wanted to lie to himself, he could believe that nothing was different between them.

Except that Steve Rogers wasn't a liar.

So, instead, Steve watches the dust motes flit in the air around them, waiting for someone to break the deafening silence hanging between them because he can't bear to.

Of course, Clint is the first to speak up. "Long time, Rogers."

"Yeah."

x

Steve wasn't surprised that TERS had set up a series of security checkpoints leading into the warehouse where the share would take place. However, he was surprised that Natasha managed to make it past all of them armed to her teeth. Perhaps he wasn't giving her enough credit as a forger, as it seemed she could do it even outside of dreams.

Once the team was inside the warehouse, they were ushered into an antechamber where their pre-mission briefing was to take place. Major Eames, a burly man with a close-cropped haircut, was waiting for them. Clint, Bucky, and Steve raised a salute as they entered, and Natasha, Bruce, and Tony hung back, near the door. Steve could hear Natasha cracking her knuckles, a nervous action he'd seen her perform a few times before.

Bucky was the first of them with the presence of mind to speak. "Good morning, Sir."

"Lieutenant Barnes. Excellent to see you. You as well, Lieutenant Barton, Captain Rogers."

Clint's noncommittal grunt was swallowed by Steve's, "And you, Sir."

"As you three know, and I'm sure that Captain Rogers has filled the civilians on the team in, today's mission is of great delicacy and absolute importance." Steve's stomach churned a bit at the Major's reptilian smile. A man who talked about civilians as if they were furniture didn't deserve to be commanding a mission like this.

"Your goal, gentlemen, is to enter into a dreamshare with Colonel Fury, recover the stolen plans for the HYDRA technological weapon, and return that information to the World Security Council and the United States government. Under no circumstances are you to reveal any of the information you may glean today, lest you be arrested and charged with treason."

At this, Major Eames fixed his dark eyes on Steve. "And you, Captain. This team is your responsibility. Are you willing to take the full measure of any consequence that may come from their participation today?"

"Yes, sir." Steve saluted again.

"Good. In that case, tell your team that they may assemble their equipment in the share room."

Steve turned, but of course, the rest of the team had already begun to file out. He could see Clint's white-knuckle grip on the silver briefcase in his fist, and he wondered briefly if the information they had collected would be any help to them at all.

x

It's a long time before anyone else speaks up.

Clint stands, making his way toward Steve to shake his hand. It's more than Steve deserves, he knows that, and he tries to tell Clint without words how much it means to have him here.

Bucky had been good at that - communicating without words. Just another thing Steve hadn't had time to learn from him.

Finally, Steve's anxiety at the silence outgrows his fear of what will be said and he addresses the group at large. "Thank you all for coming."

Tony grunts, and Bruce's gaze remains unwavering. Steve can't quite figure out how Clint got Natasha here so quickly. He does notice that she hasn't stopped cracking the knuckles of her right hand since he arrived, though.

"A job, huh?" The bitter edge in Tony's voice was not unexpected, but Steve is still surprised by how raw it makes him feel. He nods, bracing himself for the sarcastic tirade sure to come.

"All right then. Spill."

_What_? This isn't at all what Steve had been anticipating – he'd imagined anger, maybe a thrown punch or two, but apathy? He isn't sure he's prepared for that.

"Our employer will be here shortly to explain the job. It's complicated, I'll give you that. Nothing we can't handle."

When he's met with silence again, Steve gives up and finally says the one thing he's been avoiding since he arrived:

"It's really good to see you guys."

x

Fury had already been sedated, probably more to keep him quiet than anything, so when Steve and the team entered the share room, everything was silent. Fury was on his back on a table in the center of the room, surrounded by six black armchairs. Steve was surprised to see that they are completely alone, no guards, and seemingly, no cameras.

Bruce opened up the PASIV device he'd carried in and worked on connecting the lines, unwrapping sterile needles and pulling medical tape and alcohol swabs from the pockets of his jacket. Natasha settled herself behind Fury, seated on the back of one of the chairs, high up enough to have her eyes on everything. Clint and Bucky sank into the two armchairs on Fury's left, silent and staring, while Tony paced the room, jamming his hands in his pockets.

Steve walked over and caught Tony by the wrist, pulling him around to face him. Tony tugged hard, twice, but once he realized he couldn't break Steve's grip, he looked him in the eyes with a sharp, "What?"

"Sit down, Tony. You're safe. Let's just get this done."

"Yeah, sure, whatever you say Cap, no problems here, no." Tony bit out the words as Steve released his wrist. Tony threw up his hands. "I'll just take a little lie-down and hope that no one decides to use me as target practice."

Steve turned away and rolled his eyes at Bucky, who raised his voice enough to ring out, "Well, Stark, if you'd prefer to be awake I could always use the practice."

"Shove it, Barnes. Remember, you need me. Don't see any of you Army jackasses volunteering to build an entire playground for your little games of catch-and-release." Tony dropped into the chair opposite Clint and glared at Bucky poisonously.

Bruce stood up, brushed his hands off on his slacks, and reached to pass each of them a line, an alcohol swab, and a strip of medical tape. As he took his, Clint said, "Remember, watch your backs in there. Stick to the plan, Fury's going to be a security nightmare."

He turned his head to look at Bruce, "Give us 60 minutes, okay? Then tip us over and bring us back."

Bruce waved a mock half-salute in Clint's direction and settled down on his haunches near the PASIV. "Everyone ready?"

Natasha nodded at Steve as he slid the needle into the pulse point at his wrist.

"Sweet dreams, boys."

The last thing Steve remembered was locking eyes with Bucky, before oblivion.

x

Steve knows before the sentence is out of his mouth that it was precisely the wrong thing to say.

Tony stands, nearly knocking over the shoddy plastic folding chair as his hands curl into fists.

"_Really_, Steve? 'It's really good to see you guys'? After what? After you took us on a goddamned suicide-mission deep into the mind of a fucking fugitive from the government? After you put us all in harm's way because you were too much of a coward to say no to your C.O.? After you left us in the hands of motherfucking SHIELD mercenaries? Do you not _remember_ the terms we last left on? Do you not remember when you abandoned us while Natasha's fingers were broken and Bucky fucking _bled out_?"

Steve doesn't remember moving forward, but the smaller man's tirade is cut short when his hand wraps around Tony's throat. Tony uncurls his fists, enclosing both of his hands around Steve's wrist, and wheezes out, "Fuck you, Rogers. You don't get to be happy to see us. It's no thanks to you that any of us are still here at all."

At that, Steve releases Tony, who staggers back, coughing. Steve turns to leave, only to be met by Clint's hand on his shoulder, halting him. Clint looks up at Steve, a guilty look on his face, as his eyes flick to Natasha before returning to Steve's face.

"Wait, Steve. Tony's – he's going about it the wrong way – but he's right. All of us have questions about what happened last time. And it doesn't help anyone that you fell off the grid right after. I think you'd agree that we all deserve some answers."

Steve's shoulder sags under Clint's hand, and he huffs out a breath.

"I do. What do you need to know?"

x

Things hadn't been too bad, actually. Tony's build was fantastic, a frozen, snowy wasteland, littered with caves and small dug-outs, leaving very few places for any of Fury's security to hide.

Bucky had gotten a location on the cave where Fury had stashed the blueprints by impersonating a member of his SHIELD security team, and Fury had given him almost exact directions. In fact, everything was going perfectly according to plan.

Steve tried to shake the feeling that everything was going _too_ perfectly as he sent Clint and Tony back early; usually, he would have had them wait for the kick, but really, with Natasha holding ground up top, it was just as dangerous to keep them under as it was to send them up, so two quick shots to the back of the head and they were out, they were safe.

Pocketing his gun, Steve looked at Bucky.

"Let's get this over with."

x

Tony didn't think he'd ever get used to the feeling of getting shot in the head. Rudest awakening ever, that was for sure. He opened his eyes, finding himself back in the share room, but what he saw made him snap them shut again.

In the center of the room, at the foot of the table Nick Fury was resting on, a woman in a dark suit stood over Natasha, who had been tied to her chair.

_Fuck. SHIELD._

The tall brunette had Natasha's right hand clutched in both of hers. Tony slivered one eye to get a look at her face in time to hear the woman grit out, "I'll ask you again. _Who_ hired you?"

Now, Tony could make out the tear tracks on Natasha's face as she sealed her lips in a tight, white line.

"Fine, then, I see you still require more persuasion." With that, the woman gripped Natasha's wrist with her left hand and coiled her right around Natasha's middle finger. In one swift, downward pull, she dislocated the joint and Tony could hear Natasha's stifled scream.

He risked opening his eye a bit more, and he could just make out another agent, male, standing behind Natasha, holding a gun to Bruce's head.

The woman began speaking again, having released Natasha's hand and begun circling the chair, head down and hands clasped behind her back. "You will tell me who you are working for. I see that physical pain is not loosening your tongue. Perhaps I will have to move on to more _severe_ measures."

At that, the woman grasped the back of Natasha's chair and swung it around, so that Natasha was facing the Bruce. The agent retrieved one of Natasha's guns from the floor and held it in her palm, weighing it thoughtfully.

"Now, tell me what I wish to know, or watch as your team dies around you. Know that if you do not give me what I want, I will not hesitate to make your end _especially_ painful."

Tony could barely make out the shape of Natasha's hand as it dangled off the arm of her chair, but he could see that at least three of her fingers hung at odd angles. _Fuck. What was he going to do_?

Tony tried to shift in his seat, catch Clint's eye, or Bruce's, but couldn't move much for fear of calling attention to himself.

"Fuck you, bitch," Natasha bit out, and the agent reared back, bringing the grip of the gun down across Natasha's jaw. Tony watched her sag in the chair

"Are you sure?" Natasha remained silent; Tony was almost glad he couldn't see her face. "Well, if you insist." The woman turned, slowly, pointing the gun at each of the sleeping team members in turn, as if weighing her options. She stopped, the weapon trained on Bucky's chest, and Tony squeezed his eyes shut as the gun fired.

x

Steve was in the cave, cradling Bucky in his arms, watching him fade away when he realized what had happened.

x

Everything was ringing silence for a long moment.

Suddenly, all sound returned at once as Tony's ears stopped throbbing, a terrifying rush of different noises: Natasha's screams, Clint's yell, the sounds of a scuffle, several thuds, then more gun shots. Tony forced his eyes open and ripped the needle from his wrist, eyes searching the room for a weapon, for a hiding place, for something, and landing on Bruce, who's ended up crouched beneath Fury's table, pressing one finger to his lips.

Chaos had broken out in the share room; Clint had managed to disarm the female agent, and had a gun trained on her. The male agent was motionless at Clint's feet, a puddle of red spreading steadily over the concrete floor.

Tony returned his attention to Bruce, who was mouthing something, and Tony couldn't quite make it out until Bruce made a shoving motion with his hands. _Shit. The kick._

Tony had to get Steve out; he needed Steve to be _here_, to help them. So, he did the only thing he could think of:

He got up and bum-rushed Steve's chair, pushing at it with both hands until it toppled over.

x

Steve came to with a yelp, his eyes blurry, and it wasn't until he raised a hand to his face that he realized he was crying. He heaved himself up in a second and reached for the gun kept safe in his waistband, pulled it out and joined Clint in aiming at the remaining SHIELD agent.

"Steve," it was a warning. Clint kept his hand steady on the gun, but his eyes were on Steve. "Steve. Put the gun down."

Ignoring Clint, Steve ground out, "Is everyone okay?" He still couldn't seem to focus his eyes; his gaze roved the room as he swayed where he stood, one finger on the trigger.

"_Jesus_, Steve. Are you okay? Fuck it, look at Natasha-" Tony gestured vaguely toward a nearly unconscious Natasha, then at Clint, who bled profusely from what appeared to be a bullet graze on his shoulder. Meanwhile, Bruce had extricated himself from underneath the table, his hand on a fresh bruise that had bloomed along his jaw.

"Steve. Put the gun down." Clint's voice was louder, harsher. His face was paper-white. The female agent still hadn't moved from his sight, her hands held above her head.

"What happened?" Steve was half-hysterical; nothing made sense. Why was there so much blood? This was just a dream.

"_What the fuck happened_? You tell us, Steve. You said we'd be safe. You said to take it easy. I don't think that _that_ is what you meant!" Tony gestured again, this time toward the chair in which sat what remained of Lieutenant James Barnes.

Steve's eyes followed Tony's pointed finger, and finally, they focused.

Bucky's pale face started back at him. That couldn't be, it had just been a dream - if you die in a dream, you wake up, _Bucky, wake up -_

Steve rounded on the female agent, his gun still aloft. The tendons on his neck stood out, braced against his skin. His eyes were blurred again; he didn't understand what was wrong with this vision, but he could still see enough for this.

"You," he hissed, taking two steps toward the woman before the barrel of his gun fit snugly against her forehead. "You did this to him."

The woman looked up at him, her pupils dilated black. She opened her mouth to speak.

Steve didn't remember pulling the trigger.

She crumpled, and Steve's vision whited out.

Vaguely, he could hear Clint saying, "We need to get out of here. _Now_. Before the WSC or TERS figures out what the fuck happened." Steve felt hands pulling at him, grabbing his shoulders and hauling him up; there are grunts, and a moan that sounded like it could be Natasha, and Steve was being moved.

Someone was pushing him from the room, his arm was pulled over someone's shoulder, but all Steve could see was Bucky.

And blood red across the snow.


End file.
